


Cleaning squard

by BBCRULES



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:23:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBCRULES/pseuds/BBCRULES
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After funeral, Mrs. Hudson decided to clean up the upstairs flat. Thank you for reading. It just flew out of me when I saw a picture of 221B things in a container.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning squard

Fifteen days after the funeral

Thumps and creaks. The landlady opened the door of 221A. John stopped: only a trip to downstairs and he was already sweating.

"Did you eat something, dear? When are you going to get back?"

"In three hours. Thanks for the tea. I didn't go last week so it will take more time."

"I've called a cab for you. He's waiting."

Her tenant gave a terse nod in thanks: it was his second, no, first counseling with his therapist since he died. John didn't go last week despite Mrs. Hudson's barking, Harry's tear, and Mycroft's threat. This morning, he was already up when she brought up a tray of tea and toasts upstairs.

 

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Mr. Hudson briskly returned to her flat and picked up cleaning tools like cleaners, duster, and sponges along with a box of bin liners and a couple of cardboard boxes. Today she was determined to clean the upstairs flat, especially the kitchen. Molly was to come soon to deal with biohazardous waste like fingers, eyeballs, and only-God-knows-what-is-inside from the refrigerator. Thank God there was no severed human head this time.

The stairs creaked in protest; her hips were not helping this morning. Panting, the old lady walked into the sitting room and opened the windows. The smell was unbearable. A tray... Two toasts on a dish were left untouched; and the cup was half-drained. Poor John. He barely ate anything. At night, she could hear the doctor pacing around, unable to get asleep since _he_ died. Harry Watson, had visited him and offered her flat for the time being. No response from John at all after two hours.

John was so protective of _his_ things: he almost yelled when the landlady first attempted "cleaning" upstairs two days ago. Today, she hoped she and Molly would be able to handle the kitchen at least. Hygiene was doubtful given the kitchen "overflew" with fingers and toes. Mrs. Hudson looked around the sitting room.

She never knew the place was so empty. The same furniture, the same things... a fireplace, bookshelves, arm chairs, tables, sofa, rug, the bloody skull, books and periodicals, two laptops on the table… Only he wasn't here: silence fell in the room without pounding of a gun, ear-torturing violin music, and loud complaints of boredom. Even the smiley on the wall seemed to frown at her.

The door bell rang. Mrs. Hudson hurried downstairs. Molly was there. She looked worse than before: eye bags, pale complexion, blistered lips... Mrs. Hudson's eyes softened.

Poor thing. She hasn't gotten over _him._ She shouldn't have done the post-mortem of... _him._

After tea for five minutes, they hurried upstairs. Molly put on nitrile gloves and a mask, and opened the red biohazard plastic bag. The refrigerator... Shelf after shelf, she started tossing away containers and plastic bags that had body parts or cells into the red bag. After the fridge, she checked all the kitchen cabinets and drawers. Finally she took of her gloves and tossed them into the bag and sealed it. She was efficient and fast.

"I'll take it to the hospital, Mrs. Hudson. What's next?"

"All those chemicals and experiment tools..."

"Chemicals. Most of them are from the lab. I can take them back."

In another thirty minutes, all the chemicals were put away in a box. Mrs. Hudson threw away the vegetables and fruits that were shriveling or rotting away with molds. She wiped clean the inside of the refrigerator. Now the shelves were bare with a couple of sauce bottles, a stick of butter, and a few slices of cheese. No more bad smells... The experiment tools were rinsed, put in the boxes, and stacked in a corner. There was only one item left, the microscope.

"What about the microscope?"

Mrs. Hudson exasperated. They looked at each other. It reminded them of him so much. Molly's eyes were already teary. The landlady bit her lips and whispered,

"It's from Mycroft. _He_ once told me that the microscope was the best gift from his brother. I'll call him later. I also have to ask him about _his_ clothes..."

It was almost noon. Molly had to go. She picked up the red bag and box. They had biscuits and pastries with tea before a cab arrived. When the cabbie rang the bell, Mrs. Hudson uttered out one question that had dreaded her all along since she called Molly for help.

"Molly, how will John react when he sees the kitchen?"

Molly felt her eyes burn again. She managed to choke out,

"He has to deal with it anyway. He will accept it. Be positive, Mrs. Hudson. He is a tough soldier."

Then she was gone. The landlady heaved a sigh, getting ready for a grocery shopping. Maybe some food might cheer her tenant up.

To her relief, the doctor didn't say anything on the "state" of the kitchen when he came back. Mycroft had asked her to leave the microscope where it was for the time being. That night, Mrs. Hudson couldn't hear John's pacing; it was unnervingly quiet so she sneaked upstairs after midnight. He almost gave her a heart attack: he was sitting at the kitchen table and holding the microscope. His gun was on the table, too. She blinked a few times not to cry and cleared her throat. John stood up heavily and walked upstairs to his bedroom in silence, with his pistol forgotten.

 

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John still suffered. Insomnia, lack of interest, no appetite... His gun was put away in a lockable drawer. He only went out on counseling days. The following week, Mrs. Hudson started "cleaning" again: this time, _his_ bedroom: it should be simple. The bedding had to be washed; as to _his_ clothes Mycroft Holmes picked up a few items for "memory" including the dark coat and the navy scarf: Lestrade had returned them last weekend. The rest of the clothes would stay in the closet until told otherwise. Bathroom would be easy: that would be for tomorrow.

Mrs. Hudson could still smell _his_ cologne and some mothballs. She opened the window and started to tide up the room. The violin was put back to its case. Bed coverings were stripped: mattress topper, pillow and duvet covers...to the launderette two blocks away. She dusted the room and vacuumed. After thirty minutes, she felt dizzy: it wasn't only John who had lost appetite and sleep. The landlady usually tossed and turned in her bed mostly because she was worried about the doctor. She had to drink a cup of tea and rest her legs before she started her cleaning operation again.

Stacks of books and periodicals... Mrs. Hudson jumped at the book title, the illustrated guide of human decomposition. How gross! Shaking her head, she put as many books as possible to the bookshelves. There were grotesque photos of dead bodies and animals: straight into a box. She left medical books and periodicals where they were, assuming they were John's. Bundles of documents...she needed John's advice so she piled them up on the table near the laptops. Musical notes…that he used to compose…were put in a bag. A cluedo game and the chess board were slided under the sofa. There were so many odds and bits on the desk so she just put most of them in a small box. She would ask John to sort them through later. Time for dusting, vacuuming, and wiping.

Time for a rest again for the old lady. Mrs. Hudson sat on the armchair near the window. Almost instantly she jolted up, realizing that it was _his_ chair. She picked up her duster and started dusting the dusted mantelpiece again. The skull.

What did _he_ call it, Billy?

She reached out her arm and touched its smooth surface. Something glittering was inside its sockets. Wondering what it would be, the landlady picked the skull up. There it was - a packet of tobaccos. _His_ secret supply… She could hear _his_ agitated voice. _He_ had asked her to find this secret supply. Her tenants of 221B used to play a hide-and-seek on a packet of cigarettes or a box of nicotine patches. When she broke up with Mr. Chattergie downstairs, she was also upset at _him_ for his honesty. Now she realized that _he_ said so because _he_ did care for her. If only _he_ could be here, she would say the belated thank-you hundred times.

Something burst inside her. Mrs. Hudson choked up, held the skull and the cigarettes, and started to cry. Tear drops fell on the smooth surface of Billy. At last she could shed tears because John was not here. She had lost a track of time: somebody was staring at her. Flinching, she looked up and found the doctor. Apparently he was at a loss. He had never seen her crying after the funeral. Hiccupping, Mrs. Hudson choked out _his_ name for the first time since the doctor broke the news, "John, I'm so sorry. I miss _him_. I miss Sherlock."

John limped towards her. He put away his cane and led the landlady gently into his armchair. Their eyes met when he knelt before the chair. The raw sorrow, denial, and disbelief. His hands loosened. John started to sob. The absence of the detective felt so hurting. Together they cried for a long time.

 

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Three months later

Boxes of experiment tools were donated to a nearby school; some odds and bits were cleared away. 221B was too quiet, odorless, and decluttered. Mrs. Hudson didn't rent 221B to anyone else because Mycroft saw to it that the flat was kept as it was for the time being. When John moved out, the space became more spacey and empty. It was a space for the dead. Almost everything was cleared away but a few items.

On the kitchen table was the old microscope; on the armchair the violin case; on the mantelpiece the bloody skull along with the yellow smiley on the wall.

 

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Years later, it was they that greeted the comeback of Sherlock Holmes when he returned from death.


End file.
